


An Apple A Day

by loversandantiheroes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandantiheroes/pseuds/loversandantiheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cursed Storybrooke - one shot.  Prompted by a bit of a headcanony post that drifted by on Tumblr.  The original post was mostly Regina-based, this turned into mostly Mary Margaret and Henry.  I have a mild fascination with Storybrooke as it was before Emma turned up, I couldn't help myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Apple A Day

Every day Henry brings her an apple.

Miss Blanchard smiles at him, hoping to see one in return, but he is tight-lipped and tired-eyed.  Every day she takes the apple from him, thanks him for his kindness, and places it on her desk next to her nameplate.

He does not complain about the lesson today.  He has numerous times before, earlier in the week he wailed that she had taught them how to make birdhouses every day, every single day, that he’d taken her class.  When she pressed him, insisted such a thing was preposterous, this was the first time she’d given them this project, he’d dashed his birdhouse, a strange triangular thing - he’d left out the front panel, there was no way for a bird to get in or out of it - to the linoleum floor.

Every day Henry brings her an apple.

She stares at it, blush red, smooth-skinned, unblemished.  Her stomach turns.  She doesn’t hate apples, not all apples, just the red ones.  His mother, the Mayor, grows these.  She knows this.  It makes a perfect picture on her desk, a classic slice of Americana, but it makes her uneasy.  It is too red.  Red as arterial blood.  She feels that if she touches it, it would be slick with the stuff.

She finds herself staring at it often, wondering at the fear, revulsion, and sadness that wells up from it.  Bitter tears at the back of her throat.  She finds herself crying more and more these days, never sure what she is mourning.

Every day Henry brings her an apple.

Mary Margaret Blanchard can never bring herself to eat them, but neither can she say no to the boy.  He seems too desperate, nearly broken.  His mother, the Mayor, Regina, picks him up early on Thursdays.  Henry has therapy on Thursdays.  Regina stands in the door, smiling indulgently at him with lips painted to match her apples, eyes settling on Mary Margaret as he collects his things.  The smile widens and the lips press together tightly.  Eyes bore into her.  A challenge she does not understand and cannot accept.  Mary Margaret often wishes she could sit in on one of the sessions, perhaps she could help the boy more if she knew just what was wrong.  

She never sees what he sees, but how could she?  To the goldfish the world is the bowl, life is swimming around it in the same circles, again, and again, and again, and again.  All Henry can do is tap at the glass, mouthing soundlessly words the little goldfish cannot begin to understand.

Every day Henry brings her an apple.

Today she finally has something to give back.  

————

_She had gone for an evening walk, taking the time to work out a lesson plan for the next week, mind milling over snatches of poetry and possible science projects, when the tinkling of a bell brought her to a sudden halt.  Surprised, she looked up to discover she’d entered the pawnshop without realizing it._

_Mr. Gold, the pawnbroker and unspoken owner of over half the town, had favored her a tight smile.  A rag was in his hand, she’d caught him polishing the silver._

_“Miss Blanchard,” he said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”_

_She stared at him blankly, eyes wide and confused.  ”I…uh…was just in the neighborhood,” she lied.  When she’d set off from her apartment, she’d headed in the opposite direction as his shop.  Or at least she thought she had.  ”I thought I’d stop in and have a look around.”_

_Gold chuckled, a small, dry sound.  ”We don’t exactly have a lot of neighborhood in this town, Miss Blanchard.  But never mind.  Is there something in particular you were looking for?  Something for yourself, perhaps, or a gift for another?”_

_Unsteady feet carried her around the shop as he spoke.  Recessed halogen lights made glass sparkle like crystal, gave silver an otherworldly glint.  Musical instruments hung on the far right wall.  An old acoustic guitar gleamed mellowly in the lamplight.  An old but impeccably kept Rickenbacker bass hung next to it._

_“No,” she said, passing a rack of old leather-bound books, “no, not really I was just- “_

_She stopped._

_At the end of the rack was a single book displayed on a stand.  Gold letters embossed in warm brown leather read “Once Upon A Time”._

_Her feet rooted.  Her gaze fixed.  Something in her head was humming._

_“I see you’ve found something,” Gold said, suddenly right behind her._

_Mary Margaret jumped, then laughed guiltily.  ”This book,” she said, “how much for this book?”_

_He laughed, a full-throated laugh that dropped the smile from her face.  ”Undoubtedly more than you’d be willing to part with, Miss Blanchard, this is quite a rare piece.”  He stopped laughing, his tone grew sober.  ”Unless…might I inquire the nature of your interest?”  Off her confusion, he added: “Would the book be for you or someone else?”_

_Impulse drove the words from her mouth before she had time to think._

_“Henry.  It was for Henry.”_

_“Henry?” Gold echoed.  ”Mayor Mills’ son?”_

_She nodded._

_Something passed his face, a shadow of recognition, precognition, his eyes were fixed past her, beyond her, seeing something she couldn’t.  He came back to himself with a nearly audible snap, grinning broadly.  His brown eyes were warm colored, but under their gaze she felt cold.  Something vast lurched around her, some huge and unfathomable wheel turned and turned her with it._

_“In that case, Miss Blanchard, I may be willing to cut you a deal.”_

————

Every day Henry brings her an apple.

Today, Mary Margaret Blanchard gives him a book.  He is confused at first by the gift, but for a wonder, after rifling through the thick pages for a moment, the boy beams up at her.  ”Thank you, Miss Blanchard!”

He runs back to his seat, clasping the leather bound volume tightly to his chest, and for a second Mary Margaret feels that great wheel spinning again, turning endlessly, saying  _Hop on, dearie, or be ground beneath me._

Her eyes fix on the apple, red as blood, and the shudder of revulsion grounds her.  She shakes it off, all of it, and gathers up the supply cart piled with pre-cut wooden shapes.

“I thought we’d do something special this week, class.  We’re going to build birdhouses.”


End file.
